John is Dead
by Dr. Kaitie Holmes
Summary: Sherlock and John are best friends, but Sherlock does not usually show it. Now, someone has ensured that he can never tell his blogger how he feels... Rated T for language, violence, and hints at Johnlock. Rating subject to change.
1. Prologue

Molly grasped the top of the white sheet and looked to Sherlock for the go-ahead. Steeling himself, he nodded. The cover was pulled down to the chest of the cadaver.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the blinding white cloth. That shirt- it was definitely John's. Slowly, his eyes traveled up to the face.

It was John.

"Th-" He had to stop to collect himself before continuing. "That's him. That… that's John."


	2. Sherlock

Two Hours Earlier

Sherlock kicked his feet up on Lestrade's desk and waited for the detective-inspector to return. There had been no cases lately, and he was itching to put his mind to use. He had already exhausted John-mentally and physically- to remain entertained, but now he needed a mind puzzle.

When Lestrade opened his door and found Sherlock Holmes reclining in his chair, he nearly walked back out. Usually he liked talking to Sherlock, but right now he had a lot on his plate.

"Lestrade."

Too late; the consulting detective had spotted him.

"Sherlock," he acknowledged, stepping into his office. "What do you want?"

"A case, obviously," said he. "What do you have for me?"

There was one case, but they had it under control. He tried to change the subject. "Where's John?"

Sherlock waved the question away. "You must have something for me. I know how incompetent your staff is."

Frowning, trying to ignore the insult, Greg sat on the corner of his desk and held the folder out of sight. "Nothing that you'd be interested in. Hey- isn't John's birthday coming up?"

Again, Sherlock dismissed the inquiry. "Let me see the file in your hand, Lestrade. I haven't anything to do."

Sighing, DI Lestrade handed over the file and watched Sherlock flip through the papers.

"Boring," he sighed, tossing it over his shoulder. Lestrade groaned as the papers escaped the paperclips and scattered every which way. Sherlock stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. He left, grumbling about the lack of serial killers in London. As he left the building, he failed to notice that a young man lifted a phone to his ear and spoke urgently, stress wrinkling his brow. Greg gathered the papers up and straightened them as best he could before sitting at his desk.

The death of Frederick Garrison seemed a simple enough case. Two feuding families, a smoking gun-all they needed was to put the evidence in order for the court. And yet- and yet there seemed to be something missing. He went over the file again and again, hoping to put his worries to rest.

Sherlock left New Scotland Yard and hailed a taxi. Maybe there was an incomplete science experiment at home. Or maybe he'd jump John again.

At home, Sherlock found that his blogger was out and he had nothing to do.

Flopping onto the sofa, Sherlock glared at the yellow smiley face across the room. Where was his gun when he needed it? _Too far away, _he decided.

He'd just wait for John to get home.


	3. John

John shifted the grocery bag to his other arm and raised his hand to a taxi. It drove straight past him.

"Thanks," he grumbled. That was the third one. Hugging the bag to his chest, he turned down a small alley, hoping it would get him home faster. Soon he became aware of footsteps shadowing him. Speeding up, he tried to make it to the end of the lane-to other people-but they matched his pace. A figure, hidden by shadow, stepped out in front of him. John froze, wishing that he had his gun. Or Sherlock.

Trying to remain calm, he turned so his back faced the wall, keeping the two men on either side. "I-I haven't got any money," he informed them. They said nothing. Carefully, John bent at the knees and set the bag on the ground. "Look, I don't want any trouble. Just-"

Suddenly, the men rushed forward at a hidden signal. One caught John around the waist and slammed him into the brick wall. The other pulled a loaded syringe from a case while John struggled. Shoving the army doctor's head to the side, the needle punctured the skin and the attacker pushed the plunger down. Yelling and lashing out, John managed to slip away. During the struggle, he had managed to take a gun from one of the muggers. His hand clamped to his neck, John raised the gun and pointed it at the two dark shapes. His vision blurred, but he managed to fire off a single shot before slumping, unconscious, to the hard asphalt. The last thing he heard before slipping into the dark was a man yelling for help.


	4. John is Dead

The phone went off in Sherlock's pocket, waking him from his boredom-induced nap. Groaning, he rubbed his eyes before pulling it out and inspecting the screen. _Lestrade. What does he want? _After a second's debate, he pressed the screen and held the mobile to his ear. "What?"

As soon as Lestrade spoke, Sherlock knew something was wrong. The detective sounded nervous and…sad. "Sherlock, you…you need to go to the hospital."

"And why would I do that?" he asked lazily. A quick glance around the flat revealed that John still wasn't home.

"Sherlock…something happened. There was a mugging. One of the attackers was killed, and so was…the victim."

The consulting detective yawned and stretched his legs out on the couch cushions. "That doesn't-"

Lestrade interrupted, "The victim's description, Sherlock. It matches John's."

Bolting upright, clutching the phone tightly, he demanded that the detective repeat himself.

"…we don't know for sure, but the body is on the way to the coroner. You…you need to go there and possibly make an identification. I'll meet you there." And with that, the DI hung up.

The mobile fell limply from his ear, clattering to the floor. No. Not his John.

Rising swiftly and scooping up his phone, Sherlock swept out of the flat and hailed a taxi. It didn't drive fast enough for him; all the way to the hospital, he desperately dialed John's number, but each time there was no answer. It seemed an eternity before St. Bartholomew's appeared in the window.

Molly met him in the hall. "The body just arrived, Sherlock. I'm heading there now."

Too distraught to comment, the consulting detective hurried down the corridors and burst into the autopsy room. On the metal table in the middle of the room, a corpse was cover-ed by a blindingly white sheet. He couldn't bring himself to look at it just yet, so Molly stepped forward and pulled the sheet down for him.

His John was dead.


	5. The Body and the Scene of the Crime

Molly wanted to perform the autopsy right away; Sherlock managed to convince her to hold off. "Not yet, Molly...please."

The girl nodded, and backed out of the room so the detective could be alone with him. It took him a long, long time to be able to look at his blogger laid out on the cold metal table. When he did, he ran his fingers over John's still-warm cheek. "Why you?" he asked quietly. "Why?"

Of course, the body didn't answer. So Sherlock got down to work. Removing the sheet, he first examined the dead man's clothes. They were dirty, and the back of John's jumper was ripped in places. _Up against something abrasive. _Finding nothing else out of the ordinary, he pulled the jumper off and laid it on the empty slab behind him. John's torso was sporting a few bruises. _Strange, _he thought, brushing his fingers over one. _Unless he was beat up a while before he was... _Even he couldn't bring himself to think the word. His back was also bruised, and scraped. _Like he was shoved against a wall, _he mused. _John would have put up quite a struggle. _

Sherlock brushed his fingers over John's cheek and frowned when he caught sight of a tiny hole on John's neck. A bit of dried blood was around the puncture. _A needle hole. Poison. _Taking a syringe, Sherlock took a blood sample and set it aside for Molly to analyze.

After learning everything he could from John's body, Sherlock left the hospital with Molly's agreement not to touch John's body. For some reason, anyone touching his flatmate's body felt wrong. Cutting into his body... He had to suppress a snarl at the thought.

He phoned Lestrade on his mobile.

"Sherlock. I thought you might call. Is...is it him?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and affirmed the DI's suspicion. Lestrade swore. The tautness of his voice revealed the stress he was under. "Sherlock...I am so, so sorry. If there's anything we can do for you..."

"Unimportant," the consulting detective interrupted. "Where?"

"Where what?"

"Where did it happen?" he asked impatiently.

"I'll text you the address," Lestrade assured him. "We're here, waiting for you. We haven't even touched anything, given the...situation."

After Sherlock hung up, he waited anxiously for the text to arrive. When it finally did, Sherlock easily located the place in his head. It was one of the side alleys on John's route home from the market. That made him feel even more angry. How dare someone attack his John when he was doing something so innocent as buying milk and jam?

Once he hailed a taxi and directed it to the place, Sherlock met Lestrade outside of the police tape. Sally Donovan and Andersen were conversing by a police car behind them. Good. He couldn't deal with them right now. "Everything is as we found it," Lestrade informed him. "Except for the bodies. I made sure of that."

Sherlock was silent and took everything in with his eyes. There was a small pool of blood a few feet from the wall, close to a bag of groceries standing straight up, untouched. Curious. _Maybe John saw them coming. He set it down? Didn't want anything to get broken. And judging from the bruises, they slammed him against that wall there. _Sherlock stepped carefully to the wall and noted a few pale strands from John's jumper caught on the rough stone. _He fought. My soldier-doctor. _A twinge sounded through Sherlock's chest; he shoved it to the back of his mind and focused on the task at hand. Then...

"Where were the bodies found?" Sherlock asked. Lestrade joined him at pointed to the pool of blood.

"One of the muggers was found there, shot dead. John had the gun, over..." He took several strides to the left and stood. "...here. I didn't recognize the gun, so I assume that John got the gun off of his attackers. We're dusting it for prints now."

Nodding, Sherlock came to stand on the place the DI indicated and tried to play out what happened. So... "How do you know there were two attackers?" he demanded.

"A witness," Lestrade said, pointing to the police car on the street. "He's over there, if you want to question him."

Sherlock nodded again, sweeping his gaze over the scene. If there had been two of them, and one was still alive...

He was going to pay for robbing Sherlock of his John. He would pay with his life.


	6. The Other Body

The witness was twenty-two-year old Rhys Miller, an employee at some local bar who went to university.

"I just saw two guys beating on another bloke, and stepped in to break it up. I'm a-"

"Bouncer at a local bar, yes, I know. Get on with it," Sherlock said impatiently.

"How did you-?" he started. Sherlock cut him off again.

"I noticed. Now, continue." He had no patience to explain himself today-not while there was a criminal that sorely needed his attention.

The man pulled himself together and said, "Well, I went to stop them and then the short one shot the other. I kind of lost it and went to help, but the other one ran. I mean, shot out of a gun. Nearly knocked me over!"

Waving a hand, Sherlock said, "Yes, but what did he look like? Was he tall, short? Brown hair, blond?"

Rhys hesitated. "He was taller than me, by at least three inches. Five-ten, maybe? And he was built like a runner. He was a bit older than I am, I think."

Lestrade was suddenly by the consulting detective's side. "Could you describe him to a sketch artist?" he asked politely. Miller nodded, and Lestrade directed him to Sally. "How are we going to find him, Sherlock? The other one?"

"Let me see the other body," he demanded. The DI nodded.

"It's at the morgue. Miss Hooper is taking a look at him now. We can give you a ride," he offered. Sherlock turned him down.

"I have no interest in riding in the back of a police car until absolutely necessary," Sherlock muttered. Lestrade looked at him strangely as he walked off.

"Sherlock-you don't mean that you're going to-Sherlock!"

Without a word, the consulting detective walked out into the street and hailed a taxi.

During the drive, he tried not to think about what life would be like without his blogger. The flat would be too quiet-John wouldn't be there to complain about his experiments or the lack of food in the fridge. No one to bounce ideas off of or share adventure with. No one to follow or complain to when he got bored.

_Stop. Stop it, _he snarled to himself. _Focus on finding who took John from you; we'll figure it out from there. _

Molly was waiting for him in the morgue, finishing with the corpse. She was respectfully silent as Sherlock took his turn. The body didn't tell him much, just that he worked a high position in a company and drove a nice car. It was the contents of his pockets that he was truly interested in. Spare change, keys, and a wallet.

Steven Stafford, age twenty-eight. His cards and receipts told him that Steven was a rich man. And he lived nowhere near the place he had been killed. _And you don't look like a hired assassin. So what were you doing here? _

There was only one thing to do-go to Steven's address.


	7. Steven's House

Steven's home was quite impressive. The entire property was ringed by towering hedges, and black, cast iron gates guarded the drive. Sherlock ordered the taxi to wait at the end. It took him under ten minutes to crack the code on the gate and slip inside. Even with Steven dead, he didn't want anyone to know he had visited.

The drive itself was long and curved, shaded by trees that formed a leafy canopy overhead. _John would like this. He'd think of it as a date, and pretend not to, even if he knows I know. And he'd flirt. My John._

Once again, he shoved the memories of John deep into his mind. He could not figure out how to deal with the emotions coursing through him-they weren't something he was used to feeling.

Emotions. Those things ordinary people always talked about. Why was it that John brought them out in him? Even after his... No. Don't think about it.

He would deal with the men who took John first.

And then he could lose himself in drugs until those _feelings _went away.

The house itself was large. It rose four stories into the sky, surrounded by extensive gardens and pathways. The house was built of white stone, with warm brown wooden trim and ivy creeping up the sides. The shingled roof had iron railings around the edge, and a tower in the back. Four or five chimneys were scattered about the roof as well.

_Perhaps Steven does not live alone, _he mused. _I'll have to be extra careful then. _

Rounding the building, he found a side door hidden in the ivy vines. It wasn't even locked. The door led to a a cloak room. Jackets hung from hooks on the wall, and boots and shoes lay scattered on the floor. At least six kids and nine adults. Listening carefully, he could hear voices from deep inside the house. Stealthily, he slipped out of the room and entered a hallway. To the left was more hallway, with doors leading into other rooms; to the right was a staircase that led up, and a door beneath them that led to the basement. He chose the staircase leading up.

At the top of the stairs, there was a landing with similar hallways leading off. _This is going to take forever, _he thought. So he found another staircase and went up again. And again. He meant to start at the top and work his way down, but that proved unnecessary. A little boy sat on the landing, moving a toy truck back and forth across the hardwood floors. He was dressed simply, in a blue T-shirt and brown trousers.

"Um, hello," Sherlock said with an attempt at a smile. The boy stared at him. "Yes, um, I'm looking for Steven's room." _  
_

Without a word, the tiny blond boy pointed down the hall and resumed his playing. Thanking him, the consulting detective followed his directions and found a closed door at the end. Opening it, he found a neatly organized, spacious room. A bed was tucked into a corner, a desk on the other, next to the closet. Sherlock started with the desk. Any files or papers he deemed unimportant were tossed over his shoulder. From the papers he glanced at, he learned that Steven had an interest in architecture and worked at Wolfram's-an important and very powerful business. Not only that, but that company was owned by the Staffords. _Now why would a powerful man like Steven want to...hurt my John? _It made no logical sense. He growled. _If only John were here! _John was always the one he turned to for inspiration. _He brings out the best in me. Brought, _he corrected himself.

A tic started as he clenched his jaw. Whoever else had hurt his John was going to wish they were dead by the time he was done with them.

Before he went downstairs, Sherlock phoned Lestrade.

"Stafford? Of course I know that name. _Mickey_ Stafford is our prime murder suspect in the death of Frederick Garrison. Those two families have been in a feud since the dawn of time. Why do you ask?"

Sherlock decided not to tell the DI what he knew-he might try to stop Sherlock's revenge. "What about Steven Stafford?"

Over the line, he heard papers being flipped through. "Um...He's Mickey's cousin. A clean record. Why?"

Sherlock hung up on him. Alright. The cousin of a murder suspect killed John. Obviously not because of John himself-no, it had to be his connection to Sherlock. But why? What did they have to gain?

"What are you doing in here?"


	8. The Staffords

**AN: **I am terribly sorry that updating takes so long. It would have been up already, but we had technical difficulties. Thankfully, Thanksgiving break is coming up. I hope you're all doing fine. Ta and enjoy! (At least, I hope you enjoy reading as much as I like writing it.)

"What are you doing in here?"

Sherlock looked up, slightly startled, to find a very angry woman standing in the doorway. She was what most people-ordinary people-would call pretty. Her hair was dark, and her eyes were red from crying. Frequent crying. After noting several similar characteristics, the consulting detective surmised that she was a blood relative of Steven's, a sister by the striking resemblance. Judging by age, the younger one. She was dressed like a CEO in a sharp blue pantsuit that was clean but heavily wrinkled. A lot of moving and physical contact then. She was also engaged-the large diamond on her finger attested to that fact. And a very rich man, judging by the size.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

Sherlock didn't answer; he wanted to see what she would do. What she would give away.

"Answer my question, or I'll have so many guns on you that you'll be spitting up lead for a year," she warned coldly.

"I'd most likely be dead in that scenario, Ms Stafford," Sherlock said dryly. "So let's skip that bit, shall we?"

The woman looked shocked that he knew her name. "Who are you?" she repeated angrily.

He decided to show a few of his cards. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am investigating the crimes recently committed by your brother."

"Y-you're Sherlock Holmes?" The woman looked so surprised; he had to suppress a smirk. After a moment, she straightened and composed herself. "We've been expecting you. Please follow me."

Suspicious of her behavior, Sherlock pocketed the gun he had found in Steven's desk drawer and followed cautiously.

The woman led him down to the main floor, shooing several children out of her way. The blond boy from before was stealthily following them; Sherlock could see him out of the corner of his eye. The trio went deep into the house, to the very back, to a sort of meeting room. From inside, many voices could be heard. Many more than Sherlock had anticipated. Taking a deep breath, Ms Stafford pushed open the heavy double doors and ushered the detective inside.

Twelve people, seven woman and five men, were seated around a long table. Eighteen men hung around the outer edge of the room. Most of the later were dressed like body guards in dark suits and glasses.

Altogether, minus himself and the boy, thirty-one people.

The odds were not in his favour.

Sherlock's attention was drawn by the elderly woman at the head of the table who was looking at him knowingly. She had that air of ancient wisdom and dignity about her that can only be attained by certain old British ladies. "Come forward, Sherlock Holmes," she said sagely. Sherlock complied, stepping up to the opposite side of the table. Steven's sister followed.

"I found him in Steve's room, Great-Grandmother," she informed the lady. Her elder waved her to a seat. Sherlock was secretly impressed by her.

"I assume you are here because of the unfortunate...incident with Steven," she said delicately. "Tell me, did our boy live?"

The consulting detective felt no remorse when he told her no.

Several people in the room stifled sobs; the sister dropped her head and wept silently.

"I thought you knew."

"We had our suspicions," the lady admitted sadly.

"Then do you also know that your son murdered an innocent man just before he died?" he asked, tilted his head to the side. From the responses, he guessed not. "Then none of you are going to be of much use, are you? I am looking for the man Steven was with."

Several of them glanced unconsciously up at the ceiling. Now, that was quite helpful. "But since he obviously isn't here, I'll just be going."

"No-" one of the men protested, starting forward. Sherlock quickened his step and shut the double doors. There was nothing to block the door with-

Someone tugged on his jacket. Looking down, he found the little boy holding out a skeleton key. Taking it, Sherlock locked the doors and slipped the key in his pocket. "Do you know who I'm looking for?" he asked, trying to smile politely. It was a little hard; the people were pounding on the door behind him.

The little blond boy nodded. When he spoke, Sherlock had to crouch to hear his soft voice. "You're looking for Cousin Charles. He went out with my brother this morning."

"Yes," Sherlock told him. "I need to...speak to him."

The little boy nodded and took Sherlock's hand in his tiny one and led him to the stairs. The consulting detective had to bend a bit to walk. John would just _love _this. He was very good with children. Like that one case where they had to go to a primary school to-

Focus. There would be no more cases with John. Not ever, and it would be best to forget all about it.

Maybe he would delete it.

No. Absolutely not. There was no way he would _ever _delete John Watson from his mind.

But it was tempting to forget all about these _feelings_. Everything that John had ever said or did was saved in his Palace, and whenever he was reminded of one moment, all the others tried to call his attention. It was exhausting to hold them all back.

The little boy brought him back to reality. "He's in there," he said, pointing to a door. They were on the second floor; Sherlock had walked right past it on the way up.

"Thanks," he managed after clearing his throat. "Wh-what was your name?"

"Winston," the boy said quietly. "Um...I heard the adults talking earlier. About what happened. Did someone get hurt?" Sherlock nodded, hoping for some pertinent information. "I'm sorry. But at least he'll get better." Then, smiling, he turned and scurried away, leaving the consulting detective completely flummoxed. Children. So delusional and optimistic. John was never coming back, and he was going to have to accept that.

Why on earth had he ever gotten attached to that man?

Why had he ever left his side?

Shaking himself, Sherlock slammed the gates of his Palace and focused.

It was time to meet Charles Stafford.

The door was locked, but he had a skeleton key.

Wish he had one of those whenever John locked his door. That little man had such a big temper sometimes...

With a frustrated growl, he shoved those thoughts back and unlocked the door.

Charles stood up from the bed, but froze the second he saw Sherlock.

"Oh, God," he breathed. His hands started trembling. "It's you."


End file.
